


Rose Gold and Yellowed Sunsets

by promkingx



Category: Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Drinking to Cope, F/M, Happy Ending, M/M, Requited Unrequited Love, Synesthesia, excessive use of colors to avoid describing what george looks like, james is a lad
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-27
Updated: 2019-10-27
Packaged: 2021-01-04 11:16:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,557
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21196772
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/promkingx/pseuds/promkingx
Summary: Alex was fucked. In the nice sort of way. The same fucked that came when falling from a tree. In the middle of the moment, it’s like you could fly. Then? You’re fucked.OrAlex loves George, all honey and golden hour photos that Instagram girls dream of.





	Rose Gold and Yellowed Sunsets

**Author's Note:**

> first fic yay! i fell down a rabbit hole of commentary crew fics and then i wrote.

Sick. Alex was sick. That’s all it was. George was a hazy yellow, a sad story wrapped in parchment paper. He was pretty in the sort of crude way. The way that filled every hole in Alex’s chest, the loud obnoxious voice that was the sort of golden hour yellow Instagram girls dreamed of. The quieter moments were a melancholic sort of pale yellow. Overall, George was yellow, Alex was fucked. In the nice sort of way. The same fucked that came when falling from a tree. In the middle of the moment, it’s like you could fly. Then? You’re fucked.

Normal guys, even the bi ones, don’t fall for their best friends. Or their flatmates, of which George was both. Alex didn’t know when this… crush? Started. George was always a yellow, in the same way that James was an emerald green and Will, a pastel blue.

Alex groaned, head still stuck in the cloudy state it was usually in. He put the kettle on, then leaned against the counter, forearms pressed against the marble. Will shouted from the living room, pausing talking to George, to make him a cuppa.

His searches of “how to stop being in love with friend”, “how to get over crushes” yielded no results, other than an internal freak out over using the word love. Of acknowledging that he was falling from a tree, and falling fast. So he made Will and himself a tea, and went back to the living room.

To be faced with an important moral discussion on whether KSI was obnoxious because he was rich, or rich because he was obnoxious. Real groundbreaking stuff. Still, seeing George get heated (yellow-orange) over anything was hot.

“I’m just saying, what’s the reason he’s rich? He’s a YouTuber, Will! His entire bank account revolves around his personality!” George sat cross-legged on one edge of the couch, laptop resting precariously between his knees, while Will sat on the other couch, elbows glued to thighs like a man questioning his life decisions, grabbing his cup with two hands. He was more of an aquamarine, while George was the same color as a bonfire. George’s hands moved wildly to his speech, only stilling when Alex plopped down on the other side of the couch, his own cup in hand. He spoke in a playful tone, “What, didn’t have the common decency to make me one?”

“Well, you didn’t fuckin’ ask, now did you?” It was the casual sort of teasing. Comfortable. George stretched out his legs, somewhat careful with his laptop. He rested his feet on Alex’s lap, not moving when he pinched his soles as hard as he could. Alex was a dark pink, like a velvety, silky color.

George just smirked, argument forgotten, and went back to editing his video. Will resigned the argument as well and unmuted the previously forgotten TV. Some trashy reality show was on. It was like a mix between Survivor and Jersey Shore. And like that, everything fell into place. It was homely, sunset pinks and oranges. The moment was pretty, even with George’s feet in his lap. He wanted it to last forever.  
.  
.  
After he had realized that he was so utterly fucked, he started to become quieter. Didn’t want to fuck anything up, he supposed. All he needed to do was take the backseat and let this crush pass. James, Will and George were playing Fifa, a mess of blues and greens and yellows. Well, Will and George were playing, while James sat on the opposing couch, shit-talking the both of them. Alex curled in on himself, sat near to James.

He got up, stretching his limbs like a cat. Alex went into the kitchen, breathing deeper than he had done in a while. Everything was overwhelmingly colorful. James followed him, so he put the kettle on. He turned, resting his palms on the counter. James towered over him, a concerned look on him. “Are you okay? You’ve been weird all week, mate.”

“I don’t know-” James gave him a doubtful look, “-fine, I’m in a predicament that I just need to deal with and move on.”

“You’re in love with George, aren’t you?”  
.  
.

James thought clubbing was a good idea. It was too fucking hot in the club. James chatted up some blonde at the edge of the dancefloor. She was pretty, but her smile looked too crazy for Alex to even consider. James had given him a pointed look before he had spotted her, then gestured to George when he wasn’t paying attention.

He had been completely fine with Alex being in love. Although, he had emphasised good luck.

George was nowhere to be found. The room spun, bright blues and purples, so unfamiliar. He took up too much space. His limbs were heavy and awkward. He was all sharp angles and reds and pinks. So Alex drank until he couldn’t feel his awkward red-pink emotions. He drank until George, a pale yellow, took the bottle off him, gesturing for them to go.

He pouted, somewhat aware that he was trashed, wholly aware that he didn’t care. About George, himself, the now stained hoodie and anything in between. His body was not his own anymore and it freed him. George wrapped his arms around his waist, the skin there burning a pastel orange. He threw his arm over George’s head, leaving it dangling from his shoulder. They limped out of the club. The streets were a harsh comparison, cold and desolate. Alex was still far too warm. The world spun under him, his only solace being George.

“Y’know- y’know how I’m like, bi, yeah?” Alex’s words were stilted, felt muddy brown and green. His heart squeezed in his ribcage, fingers flexing and pointedly looking at his shoes to not trip.

“Well, you’ve made too many gay jokes for me not to know, ya nonce,” He replied, smoother.

“Duh, dickhead, wasn’t done talking,” He had nothing else to lose. Besides George. And every bit of hope he had. No biggie. “You’re like, hot n shit.”

Silence. Fuck. George rested his head under Alex’s chin, almost nuzzling into his collar, only for a second. Partly because they were two blokes in London at night, partly because both of them were short, partly because they were still walking. Well, stumbling.

“You’re really fucking drunk, Al. If you can say it in the morning, then I'll believe you,” Well, what was that supposed to mean? Alex’s fingers went numb as they went up the elevator. The music, like all elevator music, was stilted and the same shade of aquamarine as Will was a week ago. His head was fragile, yet heavy. Like a crystal ball filled with brain goo. George was right, he was really fucking drunk. But that was the only time he wasn’t an utter coward, so he supposed that was alright.

George fished the keys out of Alex’s pocket, hand lingering in the hoodie for a split second. It took him a few tries to get the right one in the door, but he got there. He was beautiful in the light, Alex realized. Honey-coloured and cool, somehow lighting and dimming the fire in Alex’s bones. George herded him in like a sheep. They stumbled into Alex’s room, George still tipsy but nowhere near as hammered. His fingers shook trying to take off his hoodie, so George replaced them with his own, steadying grip. Alex eventually got it off his head, but didn’t bother with his jeans or stained shirt, and just collapsed into bed. George turned to the door, muttering a good night Al, and left.  
.  
.  
Whose idea was it to get as drunk as fucking possible? Oh right, his own. A thousand bright red spikes slammed into his skull. His bones ached, heart throbbed in his chest painfully. George sat on the living room floor, back pressed against the arm on the couch. He silently pointed to the glass of water and paracetamol on the kitchen counter. Alex muttered a thanks and immediately regretted it when pain shot through his head like a bullet.

He let himself sink face-first into the other couch, the coolness providing a limited amount of relief. After about twenty minutes, he spoke, “What the fuck happened last night?”

George paused, clearly nervous, “We went clubbing, you went off and got hammered, we walked home, you called me hot, then you collapsed into bed with dried beer down your shirt.”

“Wait, what was that last one?”

“Collapsing into bed with dried beer down your shirt?” George tried an innocent face. He was highlighter yellow.

“I called you hot?” Oh no. Oh no. Alex’s heart started pounding harder, he was red-pink-panic and pink-blue-sad. George nodded slowly. “Holy fuck, I am so sorry, George, I was so drunk, I wasn’t thinking straight-”

“That’s for sure. Are you saying you didn’t mean it?” George almost looked disappointed.

“I-” George lurched forward, kissing him. He was soft and orange and everything Alex wasn’t, like two halves of one whole. But they were both whole and George was the world, with sharp collarbones and skinny hips, hands on the back of his neck. Alex kissed back, only pulling away to touch their foreheads together, and look into his eyes.

It was rose gold and yellowed sunsets. It was George. It was everything.


End file.
